


10.20

by bonebo



Series: Kinktober '16 [20]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: CBT, Dom/sub, Humbler, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 20:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8681731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: In the quiet of the rented hotel room, McCree’s voice is a dark, sinuous thing. “This is where you belong.”
  kinktober 20 - CBT





	

In the quiet of the rented hotel room, McCree’s voice is a dark, sinuous thing. “This is where you belong.”

McCree paces around the other body in the middle of the ramshackle room, watching it with bright eyes and a dark possessiveness roiling in his blood-- this is just for him. He misses none of the little twitches that seize those strong muscles, the shivers that run up ashen flesh; he can hear all the noise, the impatient huffs of breath and uncomfortable chuffs, the way the other man pants for air like he actually needs it. The smoke that drifts lazily up toward the ceiling is almost cloying on McCree’s tongue; he can all but taste the desperation and anticipation rolling off the nightmare that is bent so prettily to his whim, catered exactly to his desires.

It’s a scandalous affair, an arrangement set up by two men with no other options, who had each sampled the other’s blood years ago and found the taste too addicting to give up. But in place of McCree and Reyes it’s Deadeye and the Reaper, two criminals with hands coated red and no one else to turn to.

It’s depraved. Filthy.

McCree loves it.

Loves seeing Reaper this way--on his hands and knees with his cock hanging dark and heavy between his thighs, precum smeared over his foreskin, dribbling down his thick shaft. McCree’s belt sits snug around his throat, the worn buckle gleaming against skin dark and smoky, and Reaper’s too-many too-sharp teeth gnash at the silver bit fastened between his cracked lips; but the real treat, the sight that has McCree’s nigh-undivided attention, is the slender wooden humbler locked behind Reaper’s tense thighs.

“Does it hurt?” he wonders out loud, voice a mocking thing--because with the way it holds those heavy balls up, pinching the sensitive skin tight, of course it does. He drops into a kneel behind Reaper to run his palms up the backs of those broad, strong thighs, reaching the plush ass and squeezing, watching the way the hard cords of muscle twitch under Reaper’s ashen skin.

Silence reigns in the room, save for Reaper’s quiet, harsh breaths--and that just won’t do. McCree runs his fingertips over Reaper’s heavy sack in a ghost of a caress, then delivers a swift, sharp smack to the captive flesh, grinning wolfishly at the startled cry he receives in turn.

“I asked you a question, Reaper.” He pets over Reaper’s balls in mock-apology. The hair there is soft, tickles his skin before he tugs at it with his fingertips, watches the captive body jerk in alarm. “I expect an answer.”

They were both here for one thing. It just wouldn’t be right if McCree let Reaper lose his discipline.

“Yes,” Reaper finally chokes out, his voice hoarse and gravelly--just as dark as McCree remembers from the last time they played, but more desperate, now.

He idly supposes that if he had a block of wood locked around his balls and a known criminal squatting behind him, he’d be pretty desperate too.

“Good. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” McCree reaches between those thick thighs to gently stroke his fingertips down the flushed, twitching shaft of Reaper’s cock--a touch so light it’s just as much punishment as reward. Reaper squirms under the attention, his head dropping between his shoulders; there’s a shake to the muscles there now, a wobble to his arms, like he’s losing his composure.

McCree smirks.

Another slap rings out in the room, sharp like a gunshot, and Reaper howls as he lurches forward. McCree gently pets over the abused skin of his balls to soothe the worst of the ache, notes with excitement the way the pale skin is starting to flush with color.

“Now darlin’,” he starts, over the shuddering, hitched breaths Reaper draws in through his bit, “I’m startin’ to think that you might be doin’ this on purpose.”

Reaper doesn’t reply--but this time that’s fine, because McCree can look at the cock drooling precum between Reaper’s thighs and know the answer anyway.


End file.
